Hungry
by SibylElizabeth
Summary: This is a novelization of the season 7 episode Hungry. It's probably a K but I'm putting it as a T to be safe. I might change the ending slightly, because Rob is precious and he deserved better.
1. Prologue

Costa Mesa, CA.  
12:03 A.M.

Outside the Lucky Boy on 5th Avenue, its metal sign creaked eerily as it turned. The sole remaining employee ignored it as he formed the remaining ground beef into the shape of a brain. He stood back and observed his handiwork. Not exactly a masterpiece of sculpture (his high school art teacher would've been horrified), but it would do.

His hair stood on end when he heard the metallic thump of a vehicle going over the speed bump in the driveway. He scurried back to the drive-thru window and shut off the "open" sign. "Hey!" barked a voice over the intercom. "I was here before you turned the sign off, man!"

The employee swallowed. "I'm sorry, we're closed."

"Do you want me to call Customer Service?" the voice raged. "A super mega burger with cheese, a super mega fries, a super mega diet Sprite."

The employee was about to repeat himself when his stomach growled and he couldn't bear the gnawing feeling anymore.

"Drive on through."


	2. Chapter 1

Rob Roberts stepped out of his car into the blinding California sunlight and adjusted his uniform. He placed a paper hat on his head and repeated to himself, "You are your own man, and you control everything that you do." Then, standing a little straighter, he walked toward the 5th Avenue Lucky Boy, ready to start his shift.

He had been working the counter for only ten minutes when a professionally-dressed couple walked in. He smiled at them and repeated the same words he'd repeated thousands of times before: "Welcome to Lucky Boy, what can I get you?"

Neither smiled back. "We'll have it our way," the man responded as he and the lady pulled out badges.

"We're special agents Scully and Mulder, from the FBI," she explained. "May we speak to your manager?"

Mr. Rice moved to the counter. "That's me. How can I help you?"

"Sir, would you be so kind as to gather your employees?" Special Agent Scully asked.

"What's going on?" another worker asked.

"We're investigating a murder. A car was found in a reservoir about ten miles from here. There was a body in the trunk. And on the body," Scully paused to pull out an evidence baggie, "was this button." Though blood-spattered, the words 'Free-Fer Fridays" could be read above the Lucky Boy logo. A few more workers gathered at the counter.

"These are only given out to employees, correct?" Agent Mulder asked.

"Well, yes. But there are four Lucky Boys in Costa Mesa alone, and something like thirty in Orange County."

"Thirty-two," Agent Scully corrected.

"Yeah, it's been a long day," said Agent Mulder. "So let's make this quick." Raising his voice so as to be heard over the clamor of the restaurant, he asked, "Does everybody have their button?"

Rob's hands shook slightly as he searched through his pockets. Agent Mulder raised an eyebrow at him. Finally, he withdrew his Free-Fer Friday pin, smiling.

Mulder looked past him. "Hey, you back there; what's your name?"

The employee huffed impatiently. "Derwood Spinks."

"Do you have your pin, Derwood?"

"Uh, no, I must've left it at home on account of it not being Friday."

The rest of the Lucky Boy crew eyed him suspiciously.

"Well, I sure as heck didn't leave it on no dead guy," Derwood bristled.

"I don't believe we mentioned that the victim was male," Scully said.

Rob cleared his throat. "Who was the victim?"

"His name was Donald Pankow," Mulder responded. "Does that ring a bell?"

The employees shook their heads as one.

Mulder gave Rob a look that could only be described as threatening as the employees filed out of the restaurant.

The employees shifted around awkwardly as they waited for the agents to conclude their search. Derwood was the first to snap. "I'm gonna go get some cigarettes," he told no one in particular as he turned and walked off.

Mr. Rice mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. "I suppose I'd better call corporate headquarters and see what they want me to do."

Rob walked off as well, toward the drive-thru window. He reached inside and flipped on the intercom, then walked to the menu sign and listened to the conversation coming out of Lucky Boy's mouth.

"Hey, Scully, check it out," Mulder's voice crackled through the speaker. "You know how they say you'd never want to see the kitchens of your favorite restaurants?"

"I don't think I'd count Lucky Boy on that list."

"My point is, this place is so clean you could practically eat off the floor. Not something you'd expect at a fast-food place. It's ten times cleaner than the other ones we visited."

"What are you saying, Mulder? That someone scrubbed this place from top to bottom in order to cover up evidence?"

"I think this was the crime scene."

Rob sat down on the curb next to the menu.

"You're saying Mr. Pankow's brain was neatly removed from his skull right here next to the shake machine?"

"Sure."

"Why?"

"I think this man's brain was eaten."

"Eaten." Disbelief dripped from Scully's words.

"It's not unheard of. Some tribes in New Guinea consider human brains a specialty."

"But in Orange County?"

"What's your point?"

A beat. Then Scully continued. "Besides, how could the brain be removed through an inch-and-a-half diameter hole?

"Maybe by use of a proboscis."

"The proboscis of what?"

"I don't know. Oh. Hello. Look at this, Scully. Does that look like blood to you?"

"I'd say it does."

"And what's this? Next to it? Oh my - ew. Is that - ew - is that brain? Brain matter?"

"No. I'd say that's ground beef."

"Ground beef?"

"Yes."

Rob stood, then walked back to the front of the restaurant, chewing his appetite-suppressant gum thoughtfully.


	3. Chapter 2

The door to apartment 4 at 158 Santa Isabel Avenue swung open, and Rob entered. He placed his keys on a hook by the door and his paper hat on the table next to it. Removing his uniform shirt, he walked into the bathroom and picked up a small sponge. He knelt next to the tub and withdrew a once-white shirt from the homologous mixture of water and blood and scrubbed at it in vain. Frowning, he squeezed the liquid out of it and drained the tub. It would need a thorough scrubbing to remove any stains from the white tile. He walked into the kitchen and dropped the shirt into the trash can. He had just tied off the bag when a strident knock sounded at the door. "Rob Roberts?" a voice asked. "It's Agent Mulder. I want to ask you a few questions."

Rob dropped the garbage bag on the floor and looked through the peephole. Sure enough, there was Agent Mulder, arms akimbo and looking impatient. Rob unlocked and opened the door, fingers fumbling. Mulder smiled, albeit in a predatory, sharklike way. "Hello again, sorry to bother you at home."

"No-no bother."

Mulder pushed past him into the one-room apartment. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah, sure," Rob answered. _Come on in, I've got all the evidence you need right here in this bag._

"Great," the agent said, not bothering to hide the fact that he was snooping.

"So…" Rob said, rubbing his hands together in a futile attempt to keep them from shaking, "what can I do for you?"

"You live here alone?" Mulder asked as he turned back to face him.

"Yeah, it's just me."

"Uh huh," Mulder answered noncommittally. "Mom or girlfriend?"

"What?" Rob was at a loss.

"Come on, man, who cleans up after you?"

"Neither. It's just me. I live here alone."

"Well, good for you. You know, they say single guys are just bears who own furniture, like at my place, but here, you can smell the Pine-Sol."

_What is he up to?_ "Thanks. C-can I get you anything?"

"Yeah, a cheeseburger and a large order of fries," Mulder deadpanned. Then he grinned. "It's a bad joke. I'm sorry." He pulled a notebook out of his jacket pocket, opened it. "Mr. Rice, your manager, he told me that you stayed late on Friday. Is that right?"

_Oh, no. _"Oh, yeah, sure, Friday. The freezer had died on us, so I volunteered to stay late to throw out the meat that was going bad." _It sounded bad when I told Mr. Rice, but it sounds even more lame now. _

"Uh huh." Agent Mulder made a note. "Did you volunteer to close?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, volunteered."

Rob stole a glance at the garbage bag, then almost swallowed his tongue in shock. A pale red puddle was seeping out from underneath the bag.

"And the thirty-five pounds of ground chuck that Mr. Rice told you to throw away?" Rob looked back at the agent, sure that guilt was written all over his face. "What did you do with that?"

"I-I threw it out," he managed.

"Where?"

"In the, uh, dumpster. Behind the restaurant."

"Hmm. That's weird. Because I figured that's what you did, and so I looked, but there was nothing in there. Which makes no sense, because the dumpster is normally emptied on Thursday but you put the meat in there on Friday. So you'd expect it to be in there, right?" Mulder raised an eyebrow at him.

"Uh huh."

Mulder smiled. "But I don't see how that's relevant to this murder case anyway. Lemme see if there was anything else I wanted to ask you." He flipped through his notebook.

Rob's eyes were drawn again to the puddle, which was growing by the second.

"Blood."

Rob almost had a heart attack.

Mulder nodded at him. "You're bleeding."

Suddenly Rob tasted blood. He reached up and wiped away the red fluid about to run down his chin. "I - I bit my lip."

Mulder nodded. "I think that just about wraps it up for me here."

_Thank goodness. _Rob walked to the door and opened it for him. "Um, hey, I hope you catch the guy, huh?"

"Yeah," he agreed. "I already got a pretty good idea who it is. Thanks, Rob."

Rob closed the door after him and leaned against it. He glared at the offending bag that had almost given him away. Picking it up, he left his apartment and walked out the back door of the building. Seeing the garbage truck parked outside, he picked up his pace and tossed the bag into the back of the truck just as it started to pull away. Rob breathed a sigh of relief and brushed his hands off, glad for that accursed bag to be on its way. His fingers hurt suddenly, and he saw that they were bleeding. Glancing around quickly and seeing no one, he licked the blood off. Then he saw Agent Mulder watching him through the window of a red car across the street. He froze, staring. Then the window rolled down and a voice distinctly unlike Mulder's bit out, "What do you want?"

Rob gave him a feeble smile. "Uh, nothing."

"So take a hike," the man snapped, and rolled up the window.

Rob couldn't get back inside fast enough.


	4. Chapter 3

Hello, friends! Sorry it's been so long. I'm posting another chapter right after this, so enjoy! I'm probably not going to update as often after this, because school started up again and then tutoring started again, and now I have a play to prepare for, graduation to prepare for, and Guilder to frame for it. I'm swamped. :P

Two hours later, the man was still parked outside. Silly though he thought it, Rob had looked out his apartment window every few minutes. He supposed it was just leftover nerves from the close call with Mulder and the garbage bag.

The phone jangled, then the answering machine picked up. "Um, hi, this is a message for Rob Roberts," a friendly female voice stated. "I'm Dr. Mindy Rinehart and I'm a licensed medical counselor with the Lucky Boy Corporation's Employee Assistance Program." Rob tasted metal, then put a hand up to his mouth. Sure enough, a streak of blood was left on it. He rolled his eyes and walked into the bathroom. The lady on the telephone kept talking. "I'm talking to all of the employees at your restaurant about the recent unpleasantness that occurred there. Rob, I'd love for you to come down to my office at 11 o'clock tomorrow morning. As it is a requirement of your employer's insurance provider, this meeting is mandatory. I'm in the Irvine Medical Park, suite 308. Have a good evening," she finished brightly.

Rob dabbed at the blood with a tissue, then proceeded to remove his false teeth. Three of his own fell into the sink when he did so. _Not again. _He'd almost left one at work Friday, but managed to find it next to the milkshake machine. Then his stomach growled. He was so hungry it hurt. And there was that creep sitting outside in his car….

No, he wouldn't. He would not have any more lapses. Friday had been a huge mistake. Straightening, he walked back into the living room and shoved one of his tapes into the VCR. Immediately a cheerful man in a loud yellow shirt appeared, holding a microphone and pacing back and forth in front of a crowd. "Self discipline! That's the name of this game. That's the one thing that separates us from the animals - provided you have it." Unable to focus, Rob emptied a box of appetite-suppressant gum into his mouth and walked back to the window. The man in the red car lit a cigarette, then nonchalantly tossed the match out the window.

"... My appetite was controlling me. And it didn't stop until I put on the brakes. It didn't stop until I took control of my life and said, "Whoa -"

"Ricardo, you are your own man, and you control everything that you do," Rob quoted along with the speaker.

It was nearing 11 when Steve Kiziack lit his fourth cigarette. Staking out the landlady of the building was turning out to be even more boring than he had anticipated.

Oh, brother. Here came that weird kid again - the one that had licked off his fingers after flinging his garbage into the truck. He was hurrying over to his car, looking nervously right and left.

Steve rolled down his window. "Now what?" he asked, pointedly emphasizing the fact that the kid was being a nuisance.

The kid looked at him weirdly, then cocked his head to the side. For a second Steve felt as if he were being looked at as prey. Then he shook himself; nothing fazed this P.I.

Oh. Dear. Were those shark teeth?

All his bravado gone, Steve Kiziack screamed like a little girl.


	5. Chapter 4

Rob Roberts received a rude awakening the next morning by way of a large booted foot stepping on his chest. He gasped for air - whoever it was didn't seem to have any intention of stepping off - and flailed about a bit. His eyes burned from leaving his contacts in overnight, but he managed to focus on the face of Derwood Spinks hovering above him.

"Derwood," he squeaked, "how did you get in here?"

Derwood smiled an ugly smile and held up a few lock-picking tools. "Oh, just a little skill I picked up in Chino. I did a nickel there for attempted murder. You didn't know I was an ex-con?" he asked his victim, who shook his head. "Yeah, nobody at work did. Not until this FBI murder investigation whipped everybody up into a froth."

"Uncle," Rob mouthed, and Derwood released him. "D-Derwood, what can I do for you?"

The intruder began to poke around the apartment. "You know they fired me last night? Stupid little job where you have to wear a paper hat - and they fired me. Plus, that red-headed FBI agent thinks I did it. But that's no skin off my nose, seeing as how you did it."

Steve Kiziack's little grey cells lurched in Rob's stomach as Derwood held up an all-too-familiar orange bottle.

"Diet pills. Yours, right? Well, I found them Saturday when I opened. I didn't give them back, because I figured, hey, free speed, right? And then I saw this." Derwood turned the bottle to show a brown thumbprint on the lid. "That ain't ketchup, man."

Rob swallowed, and managed to babble, "Derwood, w-what do you want?"

Derwood shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't know, what do you got?" He loomed over the television. "TV, VCR. All crappy off-brand stuff, but I'll take it. Along with whatever money you've got in the bank. And you'll get your pills back, and I'll keep my mouth shut, and you can maybe just clear out of town before the long arm of the law reaches out and grabs you by the gonads."

Rob flinched.

As if Derwood's words had been an omen, a knock sounded at the door.

"Or maybe not," Derwood grinned evilly. He opened the door, and Sylvia Jassy poked her head in.

Rob didn't have friends, but if he did, he'd've counted his landlady among them. Diminutive and feisty, Sylvia had taken it upon herself to look after each and every one of her tenants. "Oh, hi, Rob. I'm sorry to bother you, but last night there was a man in a red car parked in front of the building. He looked pretty clean-cut so I didn't call the police, but he was still there when I went to bed. Did you happen to see him?"

"Yeesh, Sylvia, I don't know what to tell you," Rob answered, expertly skirting the real answer.

"Well, he's gone now, but just keep your eye out in case he comes back," she said as she retreated.

"You got it," Rob called after her.

Derwood shut the door again. "So, I'll call you about where to bring my new TV. And you'd better not thinking of skipping town before that."

Rob nodded feebly as the goliath Derwood disappeared out his front door.

He had just unlocked his car when a friendly voice called out, "Hey, just the man I wanted to see! How are you this morning, Rob?"

Rob turned to face Agent Mulder. "Fine."

"I'm glad I caught you," the agent continued. "Oh, hey, I was on my way over here and I saw Derwood Spinks about a block from here. He wasn't coming from your place by any chance, was he?"

"No, no, I haven't seen him."

"Good. I'd stay away from him if I were you. He's our prime suspect in the Pankow murder."

Relief flooded through Rob. "You think he did it?"

"Me?" Mulder shook his head. "No, I should say that's the opinion of the Costa Mesa police. And my partner."

"So h-he's not the guy?"

"No. I think we should be looking for someone who has a compulsion to kill, someone who truly can't help himself."

Rob shivered.

"Oh, hey, quick question," Mulder changed gears. "The meat - that you threw in the dumpster?"

"What about it?"

"The dumpster had a padlock. Who would have the key?"

"Well, the restaurant does, and the trucking company."

Satisfied, Mulder nodded and started to walk back to his car.

"H-hey, what's your point?" Rob called after him.

"I'm just tying up some loose ends," the agent answered as he disappeared into his vehicle.


	6. Chapter 5

A.N. Sorry it's been so long! And sorry this one is so short! Might be a while till the next chapter, because I have a bunch of stuff to do this week.:S Anyhoo, hope you enjoy!

Dr. Rinehart's office was small but tidy, with a host of potted plants sunning themselves on windowsills and bookshelves. The doctor herself was tall, made taller by heels, with an ornate wedding ring on her left hand. She smiled at Rob as he entered. "Good, you got my message, Rob. I appreciate you coming in. This will be really informal. Here, have a seat," she offered, gesturing to a chair covered with the same tacky carpet-pattern brocade you see in every single doctor's office. "I want to talk over a few specific things with you, but I don't stand on ceremony here so if there's anything you want to talk about just go ahead and blurt it out, okay? It hasn't been a run-of-the-mill week so far, has it?"

"No," Rob answered, a bit overawed by Dr. Rinehart's loquacity.

"It must be a pretty stressful time for you, what with the police and the FBI at the restaurant."

"Pretty much."

"So we want to stay on top of any potential issues that this might cause for you. So let's run through some standard questions…."

At this moment, Rob's stomach chose to gargle loudly. He winced.

Dr. Rinehart didn't seem to notice. "Rob, have you been troubled lately by insomnia? Any bad dreams or nightmares?"

_Other than Derwood? And Agent Mulder chasing me? _Rob shook his head in the negative.

"Have you felt emotionally numb? Do you ever see things that aren't there? Do you hear voices?"

_Other than my stomach, no. _

"Tell me, Rob, do you feel -"

"This - this murder," Rob interrupted, "what kind of monster would do something like that?"

Dr. Rinehart's eyes turned sad. "I don't believe in monsters. But I do believe in people, and sometimes they do terrible things out of sickness or weakness or fear, but I do truly believe that deep down inside, even the worst of us wants to be good." She gave him a concerned look. "Rob, is there anything that's troubling you that you'd like to talk about?"

He was that close to telling her everything when her phone rang. She pursed her lips. "I'm sorry. I thought I put that on voicemail." She rose and picked up the receiver. "Mindy Rinehart." A pause. "Yes, Agent Mulder, what can I do for you?"

Rob made a small strangled noise.

"No, I'm sorry, I can't do that," Dr. Rinehart continued. "It would violate patient confidentiality."

Rob rose from the chair. "Excuse me, Agent," Dr. Rinehart told Mulder, then took the receiver from her ear. "Rob?"

"I'm late for work," he answered, walking to the door.

"Would you please call me later to reschedule?" she asked.

But the door had already clicked shut.


	7. Chapter 6

Grease spat and sizzled as Rob placed six hamburger patties on the grill.

"Hey, what are you doing?" an employee near the back asked perturbedly, and Rob saw that Derwood had shoved her aside as he made his way over to Mr. Rice.

Mr. Rice's frown created a crease in his forehead comparable to the Mariana Trench. "You shouldn't be here, Derwood. We would have mailed your check."

The former employee sneered at him. "Just get me my money, Rice."

Shaking his head, Rob turned back to the hamburgers. He started. Six tiny brains sat on the skillet. He shook his head, unbelieving, and they resolved themselves back into hamburger patties.

An unfriendly hand landed on his shoulder, and Rob turned to face Derwood. His foe grinned at him, teeth crooked and stained with tobacco. "How you doing, killer?" he asked jovially. "You'd better have some money for me too, huh?"

Mr. Rice reappeared and shoved a check into Derwood's hands. "There. Are you happy? Now, please leave."

"With pleasure, pal," he said as he walked toward the exit. "Oh, and since this is goodbye, I wanted to tell you all. Once, when no one was looking, I barfed in the coleslaw."

A customer at the counter gagged.

"Bon appetit," Derwood called as he walked out the door.

The Spinks residence was a clammy single-level home that was mostly garage. It smelled strongly of smoke, alcohol, and stale pizza. Ratty blinds blocked all but the smallest amount of sunlight.

Rob didn't like it one bit. But almost nothing seemed to be in its proper place, which would make it less obvious that he had broken in.

He rooted through drawers, in closets, in coat pockets, even in the microwave, before he finally found a small orange bottle. Eagerly he snatched it up, read the label. _Spinks, Derwood, _it read.

Disappointment and fury flooded through him, and tears of frustration threatened to spill as he flung the bottle away. _No. I __**will **__find it. _

A motorcycle purred to a stop in the driveway. And Rob's stomach growled.

Derwood was surprised when the door swung forward as he touched the knob. Even in the dim light, he could see that the organized chaos had been disturbed. He snatched up a baseball bat and ventured into the darkness.

Rob watched from the pantry as Derwood poked around, wielding his bat as one would a sword. "If someone's still in here, you're in for a world of hurt!" he called.

Moving into the kitchen, Derwood halted as something gave a loud _crack _underfoot. He moved, and saw his pill bottle lying shattered on the floor. A cheshire smile spread across his face.

"Rob?" he called.

Rob watched as he pulled another pill bottle out of his jacket pocket and shook it. "Are you looking for these?"

Derwood scanned the room, then walked slowly toward the pantry. "Deal's off, buddy. You remember that guy you iced? Pankow? I just found out he didn't have a brain in his head."

Rob's fury had given way to cold calculation. _For once in his life, Derwood's going to be the one that's scared. _He pulled off his wig, then his ears. Contacts, then his false teeth.

"You're one sick little freak, man. You've got a lot of problems," Derwood continued. "If I were the FBI, I'd want you real bad. So I'm just gonna turn you in myself, 'Lucky Boy.'"

By this time, Derwood had made his way to the pantry and yanked it open, bat raised.

Rob stepped out of the shadows, and the bat slipped from Derwood's hand. Eyes bulging, he uttered a blasphemy.

Rob allowed him about five seconds of terror before he put him out of his misery.

A.N. Hello, friends! If the writing seems a bit different than normal, that's because it is :) I just finished reading _Frankenstein _(which is freakin' awesome, if you haven't read it) and I'm finding a lot of parallels between Rob and the Creature (also they're both INFJs). I realized that my writing of Rob was a bit flat so I'll try to do more from his perspective and about his emotions.

I'd also like a bit of feedback from you all! I have a story in the works that is a direct sequel to Hungry but features some of the other Monsters of the Week as well (because they're awesome :D). But I'm undecided as to whether to have Rob kill Sylvia in this story because I kind of want to use her in the next story. Please let me know whether I should have her live or stick to the original storyline.

Thank you all for reading!

-SibylElizabeth


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